Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Lots of brush-percussion. Lots of lazy saxophone.

Oh, Lord, a porno soundtrack.

He still hadn't budged from just inside the door when she marched to the bed, folded back a corner of the comforter, ordered, “Get naked and comfy. I'll be back in a jif.”

She took her purse into the bathroom. Aaron listened for telltale sounds, anything weird. Heard nothing.

Okay, this was the choice point: make his escape and possibly miss the chance for a serious lead, or go with it.

Seconds later, he was under the covers, clothes folded neatly over a chair, wallet, watch, cell phone safe at the bottom.

He watched numbers shift on the cheap digital clock next to the TV.

“A jif” stretched another four minutes, during which he fantasized about terrible things.

She's got a gun.

A razor.

I'm an idiot.

The bathroom door opened and she was at the side of the bed, standing lean and unclad, brown-pelted crotch inches from his nose, ready for inspection.

Not a young woman's body, but beautiful. That long-waisted configuration he liked, but still plenty of leg. That nice belly curve women developed when they didn't get crazy about starvation. Those child-bearing hips defined by angular bones. Generous breasts, no false advertising by the T-shirt. A little droopy but for some reason that appealed to him. She'd pulled her hair into a ponytail. The diamond ring was nowhere to be seen. That last fact-and her ass-got him instantly hard.

As she bent at the waist and leaned over him, he smelled her breath, astringent with alcohol. Gin, the junipers were in bloom. She'd fortified herself with a bathroom belt.

He touched her. Mixed business with pleasure and looked for bruises.

None but the single camouflaged patch. How many internal wounds, he had no idea.

Gemma Dement got in bed and his nose filled with booze and perfume. Clapping one hand on his head, she fed him her left nipple.

“Suck it hard but don't bite it. Keep your eyes closed. I really am much older.”

Aaron wondered how he'd itemize this on his next bill to Mr. Dmitri.

He went into it expecting craziness-manic sex, followed by tears, guilt, some sort of histrionics.

Sobbing discussion of guilt and atonement.

She worked him like a pro, athletic, silent, not even breathing hard. Positioned herself serially, as if playing for an unseen camera.

While she was in the bathroom, he'd gone over every damned inch of the room to make sure there wasn't any camera.

They stayed in a lock until she eased away yet again. Did something with her legs that looked unlikely, managed to guide him in.

“Comfortable?”

“Oh… yeah.”

Obliging, considerate, business-like. Going along with anything he wanted, then rewriting the script without warning as she assumed a new pose.

This was choreography and she was in charge.

That should've bothered Aaron. He enjoyed himself, anyway, had to work at holding out, wanting to keep this level of pleasure for as long as he could.

She knew he was ready before he did, said, “Come in my pussy, it's safe. Or anywhere else, it's your choice.”

The detachment in her voice caused him momentary self-doubt, an instant of diminished blood supply.

She did something with her hand and her mouth and he was back in the saddle.

“Anytime, Artie,” she said. “You've already rocked my world.”

♦

Afterward, she said, “Please stay in bed,” and went to dress in the bathroom. When she emerged, her hair was loose and she looked as if she'd just taken a pleasant nature walk.

As she moved to the door, Aaron said, “You're leaving?”

“You're the one on vacation. Regards to Kansas City.”

They got some crazier little women in Malibu.

Aaron sprang out of bed, hurried to her side. “Stay. You're beautiful.”

Looking down, she laughed. Took hold of him, gave a playful tug. “You're a healthy boy, my lawyer. Sorry, bye.”

“You're leaving me here to atone all by myself.”

Anger tightened her face. She stepped away from him.

Disgusted.

Aaron said, “What did I say?”

Her face churned, turned ugly. Got pretty again. Spit flew with each word: “Atonement is for assholes who actually sin. Let me out of here.”

Moe sat at Liz's computer searching for Web images of Adella Villareal with either Ax Dement or Mason Book.

Book was everywhere, lanky and blond and handsome and heavy-lidded.

Dement Junior showed up a handful of times, always as a second-row leech, almost always unidentified.

Adella was nowhere.

Being strangled, with who-knows-what done to your baby, didn't merit attention unless someone wrote a movie about it.

He thought about Caitlin babysitting for Adella. Set up by Rory? Or had Adella come into Riptide, chatted with the friendly college girl? Why would Caitlin, going to school, already with a job, have taken on an additional gig all the way in Hollywood?

Maybe Adella had charmed her. Or Caitlin had been introduced to Adella by someone more high-status than Rory, like Mason Book.

He had two points of entry: Rory or Raymond Wohr. The kid could refuse to talk to him-with that mother of his, a likely response. The last thing Moe needed was Rory going the lawyer route. Maybe a highpowered lawyer hired by Mason Book… Wohr was definitely a better bet. He'd find some way to brace the lowlife.

Liz awoke and called him into the bedroom. Later, they showered together, she left for the lab, and Moe dressed for the job. Glad she wasn't there to see today's work clothes.

Driving to Hollywood, he phoned Petra Connor to inform her he'd be working her turf.

She said, “Have fun. We've been to Vice, seeing if we missed anything. No one has information about Adella selling her body. Wohr and Eiger are low-level hustlers with no showbiz connections anyone's aware of.”

Moe said, “Wohr's twisted,” and recounted his talk with the Reverend Arnold.

Petra said, “His own niece. What a dirtbag.”

“What I keep thinking about is he showed no feelings for the baby, basically ignored it.”

“And who doesn't like babies.”

“Exactly. In my mind, he's shaping up as all kinds of bad.”

“Makes sense,” she said. “You're on him today?”

“Soon as I get to his crib. I'm at La Brea and Santa Monica.”

“Welcome to Hollyweird.”

He parked six blocks from the apartment on Taft, psyched himself up to shuffle slow, look glassy-eyed.

Dressing for the job meant forgoing shaving, a gray watchcap pulled low on his head, a T-shirt rescued from the bottom of his laundry hamper, his grungiest jeans and crappiest sneakers, under a stale-smelling, previously worn green hoodie he'd just bought from a street vendor at Hollywood and Highland for nine bucks.

He'd checked the garment carefully, couldn't shake the feeling some sort of microscopic vermin had set up house in polyester.

Street cred came with a price.

If he was even pulling it off.

No one paid him attention as he rounded Hollywood Boulevard, so maybe he was.

Slouching, sucking in his cheeks and jamming one hand deep into a jeans pocket as if he had a stash buried down there, he half stumbled up Raymond Wohr and Alicia Eiger's block.

One apartment building after another, a few half decent. Theirs wasn't, with cracked stucco, sagging gutters, a brown lawn. Up above Franklin, the housing got a little nicer. Better to avoid that and not chance alarming some nervous citizen. He turned west on Franklin, covered a couple of blocks, reversed himself, lit up a cigarette that never touched his lips. Repeated the whole damn drill several times.

The aimless routine of a lonely, addled loser.